Anticipation
by adaon45
Summary: Good news for Adaon's parents Taliesin and Cerys, as well as premonitions of tragedy and hope to come.
1. News

_Disclaimer: This world's not mine, but it's home away from home._

Anticipation

Ch. 1: News

Cerys, wife of the Chief Bard Taliesin, peeked affectionately at her husband over the stack of books lying before her on the table. It was early morning, and the couple were still in their chambers in the castle of Caer Dathyl, seat of Prydain's ruling family. Soon they would migrate to the book-crammed library in the Hall of Lore where they usually worked during the day. As both husband and wife were bards and formidable scholars, there was much to keep them occupied, be it reading ancient volumes or writing their own poetry, much of it set to harp music they composed as well. On this sunny but chill winter day, a fire was lit in the room adjoining their bedchamber, and they had already started their day's reading at the breakfast-table, on the center of which lay jugs of water and fresh milk alongside the remains of a new-baked breadloaf and a dish of honey. Crumbs remained on Taliesin's plate, but Cerys's still bore a slice of bread missing only the minutest of fragments, as if nibbled by a languid mouse.

It was strange, thought Cerys, pushing her plate a little more to one side, how seldom poems or stories spoke of life after marriage. When the hero had won his maiden (annoying, she mused, that it was so rarely the other way around), the two presumably disappeared, eternally blissful, into a rose-colored sunset. When life after marriage was mentioned, it was only in terms of procreation—namely, how many male children the erstwhile maiden bore the happy hero. Cerys smiled. How much those tales missed! There were of course great, heartstopping joys, but more common were the simple, everyday pleasures of jogging contentedly through life at the side of a beloved companion. For Cerys and Taliesin, such pleasures included, in addition to the delights of the marriage bed, the close intellectual bond that knit them as scholars, poets, and composers. They were always trading and talking about books, tracking down answers to riddles raised by fugitive bits of lore, and trying out new poems and songs on each other.

There were, of course, the imperfections that made this tapestry of quiet happiness the work of mortal hands rather than of happily-ever-after fairy-tale figures. There were the rainy days, the grumpy days, the moments when even people deeply in love rubbed against each other's nerves. Still, Cerys could scarcely believe that she had found such a friend as well as lover with whom to share her life. It was strange to think it had been less than a year since they wed last spring. It was hard to remember a time when they had not been as one.

Cerys smiled again, remembering the wedding. The amusing thing about it had been the ever-swelling guest list. At first she and Taliesin had resolved to wed quietly in a private ceremony, but this plan quickly collapsed. The royal family of Don wanted to attend—King Math never missed a wedding if he could help it—and members of the Council of Bards, too, clamored to witness the marriage of their leader with this recent initiate of such stellar talents. Many of the bards had family themselves who insisted on coming, and Rhiangar, Cerys's dearest friend, traveled from the country with her own betrothed as well as her parents and five brothers. Several of the brothers had married and had children, so of course all of them had come too . . .

Finally, it seemed like the entire court attended, if not much of Prydain.

Rhiangar had been in her element. Rhiangar had helped Cerys fashion a realistic costume when her friend had determined to wander the countryside dressed as a male bard. Arriving before the wedding and quickly noting the couple were too blissful to care about everyday details, Rhiangar insisted on designing their wedding clothes. After discovering that the favorite color of both husband- and wife-to-be was green, Rhiangar supervised the creation of outfits of green and gold—clothing far richer than the practical pair usually wore. Cerys's dress was beautiful, as was her hair when Rhiangar had finished with it. Cerys's hair had not yet grown out—she had cropped it short for her wanderings—and she declared she was not about to postpone the wedding until it reached her waist again. (Not that anyone, Taliesin least of all, tried to persuade her.) Hence, the bride's fine brown hair was as yet only shoulder-length, but Rhiangar and several of Cerys's friends at Caer Dathyl still braided it intricately with ribbons of green and gold to match her dress.

"Don't worry," Rhiangar had assured Cerys as they worked on the elaborate braids, "we'll undo it all for you after the wedding feast." She smiled wickedly. "After all, I'm sure you won't have the patience to pick it all out later on, will you?" She laughed. "Oh, Cerys, there you go blushing again. I'd have thought that by now you'd have gotten out of that habit."

Back in the present, her untouched breakfast pushed as far from her as possible, Cerys wondered what Rhiangar would make of the news she hoped to impart that day to Taliesin. Her delighted friend would probably indulge in much salacious winking at Cerys's expense.

Glancing up from his reading, Taliesin caught his wife's eye and smiled. He still had difficulty believing she was really there, not just a figment of his imagination.

His eyes rested on her right hand. Her second finger was steeped in ink. Would he have imagined that homely detail, he wondered? Well, probably. It had always been his dream to wed another poet. And Cerys's work was brilliant. The songs she had written during her stint as wandering bard were among the best he'd ever heard, and since their marriage she had labored on a volume of unusually innovative verse. Of course, some might think him partial, but he was not the only one to assess her work highly. Whenever she tried out one of her compositions on their fellow bards, their responses were much as they had been when she sang at her bardic exams—awestruck and, if the verse was sad, tearful.

"You know," he'd told her a few days ago, "as soon as you've been a bard for the requisite number of years, you must serve on the Bardic Council. It wouldn't do for me to put your name forward, but I'm sure someone else will."

"Enlli," she smiled. Enlli, a kindly, round-faced old bard, was one of Cerys's biggest supporters.

"Who knows?" Taliesin asked. "Perhaps Hywel."

They burst out laughing. Therein lay a tale.

Hywel, an aged, crotchety bard, had been the most resistant on the council to admitting women to the bardic ranks. At Cerys's exams—where she had been the first woman to present herself for initiation for some time—he had objected to her performing her own song, even though he knew full well such a choice was permissible. When his complaints came to naught, he subsided into sulky silence while the other bards raved about Cerys's erudition. When she returned to Caer Dathyl following her months as wandering bard—clad in male clothing for safety—Hywel had been outraged at her lack of womanly decorum, if not maidenly virtue. He had cast aspersions on her character to all who would listen, and even called her a slut in Taliesin's presence, earning a rare—and stern—rebuke from the Chief Bard.

Once news of Taliesin's betrothal got out, the Chief Bard heard nary a word from Hywel. Taliesin would have attributed this silence to disapproval had he not received the distinct impression, from Hywel's hangdog air, that the elder man was struggling less with indignation than with shame. Though present at Taliesin and Cerys's wedding, he had apparently been dragged there by Enlli, who seemed to be making sure he didn't bolt. Enlli—beaming as broadly as if he'd arranged the match himself—had been one of the first to congratulate the couple after they exchanged their vows. Afterward, he stationed himself near Hywel, who stood on the edge of the company surrounding Taliesin and Cerys, looking irresolute and biting his lip. Finally, Enlli gave an exasperated shove in the small of his colleague's back, and Hywel, unable to escape, found himself facing the newlyweds.

"Taliesin. Lady Cerys," he croaked. "I wish you joy."

Taliesin kept himself from laughing. He had never heard good wishes bestowed in so lugubrious a fashion.

Cerys, meanwhile, turned on the woebegone bard the full force of the smile that made Taliesin weak in the knees. She held out her hand.

"Hywel," she said as the older man took it, "we are so glad you came today. I know"—she smiled even more winsomely—"we have not always agreed on the appropriate behavior for female bards. But I trust such differences are in the past?"

Taliesin turned away to keep from chortling too obviously. When he looked back, Hywel, still holding Cerys's hand, had squared his shoulders.

"Lady Cerys." He bent and kissed her hand, releasing it and bowing deeply. "You are more gracious than I deserve." He smiled suddenly and with unabashed warmth. "I greatly misjudged you. Please accept my apologies for my boorish behavior."

"Of course," Cerys murmured. "We need not mention it again."

"That's good." Hywel glanced at the other guests, who were seating themselves at outdoor tables for the wedding feast. "Time to get drunk. There's nothing like a happy occasion to give one a chance to forget what an ass one has been." He bowed again and strode purposefully in the direction of the refreshments.

"Oh, well done," Taliesin whispered in Cerys's ear.

She smiled. "At least he had the grace to apologize. Not many can do that. And I wouldn't have rubbed his nose in it, either, except I thought if I didn't he'd always skulk around us looking morose, and that would be tedious, wouldn't it?"

Yes, thought Taliesin, gazing fondly at his wife, trust Cerys to manage Hywel, something the rest of the Bardic Council had been trying to do for years.

Yet even as he regarded her, Taliesin noticed that Cerys was not looking so well as usual. She was pale and peaked, bluish shadows under her eyes. Come to think of it, she had not been eating much for the last few days. Even now her breakfast lay beside her almost untouched. As he gazed worriedly at her, Cerys took a gingerly sip from her goblet, as if the water it contained were a potentially noxious brew. A look of something like horror spread over her face and, pressing her hands to her mouth, she stumbled from the table into their bedchamber. Taliesin heard an unpleasant retching sound.

Both mystified and alarmed, he hurried into the room to find Cerys doubled up over the washbasin. Since she had eaten so little, she wasn't bringing up much, which only seemed to prolong the agony. Keeping his questions in reserve, Taliesin gently held her head and moved her hair back from her face.

Finally, Cerys spat out some yellow substance. "Ugh," she grimaced. "Bile." She pushed the basin as far away from her on the washstand as possible. "Sorry," she said, turning to Taliesin. "I did not mean to turn your stomach too."

"What's the matter, love?" he asked. "Is it something you ate? But you haven't been eating much for the past few days . . . "

Her expression was not what he would have expected. She was smiling broadly.

"Oh you dear wise man," she murmured. "You know so much, and yet right now so little. Can you figure it out?"

Standing near the bed, Taliesin suddenly sat down upon it with some force. Cerys settled herself beside him.

"I see you've worked it out," she said happily.

"How?" croaked Taliesin. Cerys looked amused.

"How did it happen? You ask that, sitting on this bed?"

"No," laughed Taliesin, "not how did it happen. How do you know?"

"Well," she pointed out, "I've just missed my second cycle. My breasts are tender, and I've been queasy the last few days. I didn't actually throw up until today, though. I've wanted to tell you my suspicions, but I thought I'd wait until I was certain. Sometimes women miss a month. But violent retching does make it a sure thing, doesn't it?" She peered at him closely. "You are happy about this, Taliesin, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," he replied, hugging her. "I'm just—well, overwhelmed. And worried too, I confess."

"Ah," she nodded, "I am too. Few women can face childbirth without at least some fear. But it usually turns out all right, doesn't it? And it will be so marvelous to have a little one."

"I never thought I would, " murmured Taliesin. "Thank you, love." He held her even more closely.

"Oh dear." Cerys loosened his arms and lunged for the basin. Taliesin winced. When she had finished, she regarded him ruefully.

"We'd better put a basin in every room," she said. "Brace yourself. It's going to be a wonderful—but messy—time ahead."


	2. Premonition

Ch. 2: Premonitions

Some months later, Taliesin and Cerys sat in the gardens behind the Hall of Lore. Winter had given way to summer, providing the couple with the opportunity to spend hours outdoors. Cerys's nausea had improved but never wholly left her, and it eased her to breathe the soft warm air. Despite the queasiness, she was able to eat well enough, though some once-enjoyed foods now inspired loathing. On this day she sat on a comfortable chair Taliesin had carried out to the garden, a bowl of fruit—something she could still savor—close to hand. Eyes closed, one hand cradling her now-swollen stomach, she reminded her husband of nothing so much as a plump-bellied cat purring in the noon sun.

On this day, however, Cerys had not been quite so cheerful as usual. Taliesin suspected this was due less to the strains of pregnancy—added weight, swollen ankles, and assorted ills—than to their dinner conversation the night before. The couple had dined privately with the royal family, aged King Math and his nephew and war leader Lord Gwydion. The latter was still a youngish man but seemed older than his years. Reminding Taliesin of a lean lone wolf, Gwydion, with his green-flecked eyes and sun-browned face, was as always preoccupied by anxiety about the encroaching power of Arawn. Last night the Prince of Don had been about to leave Caer Dathyl with a group of warriors to investigate a report of attacks by the Cauldron-born, slaves created from bodies of the slain steeped in the cauldron kept for the purpose in Annuvin. Lacking all memory of their lost humanity, the Cauldron-born were ruthlessly efficient killers who could not themselves be killed, a worrisome combination. Gwydion had not spoken much of his upcoming mission, but Taliesin could tell that Cerys was troubled by what he had said. She had been subdued the next morning, and now, even though she looked tranquil in the midday sun, Taliesin could tell her mind was not wholly at ease—and nor, indeed, was his.

As he regarded her, she opened her eyes and smiled, more tentatively than usual.

"You have been troubled today," he told her gently. "Is it because of what Lord Gwydion said last night?"

She nodded, no longer trying to smile. Then, looking up at the soaring towers of Caer Dathyl sparkling white in the sun, she asked softly, "We're living on borrowed time, aren't we?" When he did not immediately reply, she continued. "It hasn't happened yet, and it may not happen for years. But, then again, it could happen tomorrow. One day it's all going to come to a head. Arawn will try to get Prydain to himself once more, and it will be a battle to the death with the rest of us, won't it?"

"I fear so," he said quietly.

"Have you ever thought," she asked him, "what would happen if Arawn won?"

"Often," he replied. "And most frequently when I cannot sleep, in the middle of the night." Then, reaching forward and placing a hand on hers, he spoke, his voice urgent. "But we cannot let such fears rule us, Cerys. It would be like listening overlong to the horn of Gwyn the Hunter. We have to live—and simply be as ready as we can be if, or when, the time comes."

"I know," she replied. She looked up again at the castle, rising protectively behind them against the snow-capped mountains. "But have you thought, Taliesin, what would happen to all of this? If he won, Arawn would never let Caer Dathyl stand, would he? He'd raze it to the ground, and with it everything the Sons of Don have created over the years. Have you thought," she looked at him searchingly, "what it would be like to watch Caer Dathyl burn—everything, including the Hall of Lore, even the Hall of Bards?" She spoke of the treasured archives beneath the Hall of Lore, which none but bards could enter.

"Yes," said Taliesin, his gray eyes scanning the castle walls. "I have imagined what that would be like." A characteristic wry smile lifted the corners of his lips. "But if Caer Dathyl burned to the ground, the loss of a few books would be the least of our problems." Catching her shocked look, he could not help but smile again. "Oh, I know, a few books' doesn't really describe it, does it? But what I mean is, if it got to that point we probably wouldn't be around to watch the castle burn. Or, if we were, our lives would be in such danger we couldn't spare much thought for lost libraries."

"Furthermore," he went on, "yes, we'd lose incalculable riches. But we wouldn't lose everything, would we? After all, our songs live on in the hearts of our people. We could gather at least some of them again."

"If we survived," pointed out Cerys, "which would mean that in the end Arawn would not have won after all."

"Well, yes," Taliesin said. He looked at her again. "But should we think about this now, with happier events at hand?"

"Taliesin," she warned him, smiling, "you know I am not too fragile to deal with these things—even in my delicate condition."

He laughed. "Who said you were fragile, love? Not I! No, I simply meant that—Arawn notwithstanding—we should relish the joys in our lives." He placed a hand gently on her stomach. "How is the little one today?"

"Can't you tell?" Cerys grinned. They loved to feel the baby moving beneath their hands. Right now, it was swimming vigorously. They could actually see Cerys's body rippling in places kicked by small feet.

"A strong fellow," Cerys murmured. Taliesin raised an eyebrow and she smiled. "Oh, I know it could be a strong girl, too."

"Not surprising," interrupted Taliesin, "given her mother . . . "

"Of course I'd be equally happy with either a boy or a girl. I just think it's a boy, that's all." She looked down at her swelling stomach. "I only wish," she said sadly, "I were bringing this child into a safer world."

"Ah yes," said Taliesin, removing his hand. The baby had quieted down. "Yes, I do too."

They were silent a few moments. Then Cerys took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to keep bringing this up," she said, "but imagining the loss of our lore—of our memory, as a community—reminds me of the Cauldron-born. What is it like for people to forget their humanity? Have you seen them, Taliesin?"

"Yes," he admitted. "In my younger days, when I did some fighting."

Cerys teased. "I remember hearing stories about those days . . . "

Taliesin shook his head with his self-deprecating humor. "Whatever you've heard, fighting is not where my talents lie. Nor is warfare my favorite activity. I'd much rather read a good book. But yes, I have seen the Cauldron-born. If ever I'd been cornered by them," he smiled wryly again, "you'd have heard a lot fewer songs about me."

She shuddered. He regarded her with compunction. "Forgive me for jesting about such matters." She left her chair, moving to the bench where he was sitting, and they nestled in each other's arms.

"It would be terrible, " she said finally, sitting up and looking at her husband, "not to be able to feel."

"It is terrible," he agreed. "But I tell you, Cerys, it is not only the Cauldron-born who do not feel. In war the ability to feel—with and for others—is the first of our losses. We must learn to live at peace, without succumbing to the lust for blood or power. I have heard Lord Gwydion himself say that perhaps the worst of Arawn's crimes has been to make war seem like a good idea."

He sighed. "Indeed, if you speak of the lust for blood, perhaps the foulest of Arawn's creatures are not the Cauldron-born but the Huntsmen of Annuvin. The Cauldron-born are slaves, puppets in the hands of their Puppet-master. The Huntsmen of Annuvin choose to indulge their basest instincts." His voice, normally gentle, grew hard as he gazed in the distance. "The Huntsmen dress in animal skins, but they are worse than beasts. No beast kills for pleasure. The Huntsmen kill purely for the joy they take in destroying life."

He glanced back at Cerys and stopped, alarmed. Body rigid, face white, she seemed to have gone into a trance, her haunted gaze far from the sunlit garden. One hand clutched her breast as if it pained her.

"Cerys!" The sound of his voice wrenched her back from whatever nightmare she was inhabiting. She breathed hard, like a drowning person who unexpectedly reaches shore. "Sorry about that," she finally managed, "I did not mean to frighten you, love. That has not happened for a long time."

"What was it?" he whispered.

She smiled ruefully. "Enchantress blood," she admitted. "Doesn't it seem that there's an enchantress or two on every family tree in Prydain? My people have a couple, and every once in a while _that_ happens. Oh, magic doesn't interest me any more than it does you." Here she referred to her husband's marked indifference to developing his own latent magic powers. "But then one day I'll suddenly find myself surrounded by swirling mist, and I'm desperately trying to see through it. I never quite do, although it always seems I come close. This time, it happened when you mentioned the Huntsmen. It's strange, as I've heard of them plenty of times before. But this time, the mist surrounded me again, and it was worse than usual, for it seemed to choke me. And I felt a sharp pain, here." She looked down at her hand, as if noticing for the first time it was clutching the bosom of her dress. Slowly, she unclenched her fingers, releasing the bunched-up fabric, and rested her hand protectively on her stomach.

"Well," she said, endeavoring to sound casual, "who knows what that was all about? What's the saying? Someone walking on my grave."

"Don't say that!" Taliesin flung his arms around her. She gently prised herself loose, then smiled at him, looking more like her usual self.

"I'm sorry, love," she teased. "I keep forgetting how terrified men are of childbirth. That's why we women do all the work, you know."

Taliesin laughed. "You're right—we men are the real babies."

They passed the rest of the afternoon companionably enough, though each kept shooting clandestine glances to make sure the other was all right. After dinner, Cerys asked to go back out to the garden and watch the moon rise. Donning light cloaks, they stepped into the cool night air and sat on the bench as dusk deepened around them, turning bright flowers ghostly silver.

Taliesin sneaked a peek at Cerys and found her looking at him. They laughed.

"You needn't worry," she told him. "I'm all right. In fact, I'm feeling much better."

"I rejoice to hear it," Taliesin told her, placing his arm around her shoulders. She looked at him.

"You know," she said, "I've been thinking. The answer is love."

"The answer to what?" Taliesin queried. She smiled again.

"Well, everything," she said. "But, more specifically, to the problem of Arawn. Maybe"—she spoke softly—"it will not be bloodshed or violence that defeats him. Maybe it will be love. You spoke earlier," she turned to her husband, "of the Huntsmen and how they choose a life of hatred. Maybe someone who chooses love will finally tip the balance the right way."

"You know," she continued, "battle is the one male preserve I never wanted to enter. You men can have it! But I've always marvelled at one thing—the ability that some have, in wartime, to lay down their lives for a comrade. Oh, I'm not speaking so much of loyalty, the oath warriors take to die for their liege lord. That's all very well, but it's not so wondrous as love. It seems in one regard the most natural thing to do, to give your life to save one you love, the way a mother"—she laid her hand on her belly—"would unthinkingly sacrifice herself for her child. Yet if it's the easiest thing to understand in one way, in another it's the hardest and most mysterious. How does one give so greatly of oneself for someone else? There may come a day," she concluded, "when someone who could have chosen to live chooses instead to die, in order to save a friend. And that may be the beginning of the end for Arawn."

He could not speak, only hold her more tightly in his arms. And so they sat quietly, as night fell and spangled the sky with bright stars.


End file.
